Dreams in Technicolour
by bonnjie
Summary: NickRita oneshot. Rita intrudes on Nick dreams whilst drunk, fun ensues. COMPLETE.


b Title: /b Dreams in technicolour

b Fandom: /b Harry Potter

b Characters: /b Rita Skeeter/Nearly Headless Nick

b Prompt: /b 020. Colourless

b Word Count: /b 

b Rating: /b PGR. Contains drunk Rita (again!)

b Summary: /b Watching Rita Skeeter get drunk can turn out to be more eventful than a colourless ghost thought possible.

b Author's Notes: /b Dedicated to GELISE, the most awesome awesome person in the whole of MA! Keeping Nick/Rita alive since ... ages ago!

lj-cut text"Dreams in technicolour"

Nick did not associate himself with colour. Silver was not a proper colour, he would tell himself as he floated past students dressed in red, and gold, and blue, unable to see the colours surrounding him. He would pass by flowers without a care, completely oblivious to the rainbow of colours and convincing himself that he did not in with this world where colour reigned supreme and he could not see it. Each day passed in monochrome, but as the darkness of night draw closer and he closed his eyes as pretend slumber drew near, his world was filled with colour. The old world came back to him in full force, women in red silk dresses dancing with men in black fur, green meadows with wildflowers in every colour imaginable, bloody sunsets in every hue of red imaginable.

"Nick, get up! Get up!"

The familiar voice of Rita Skeeter awakened him from his forced slumber. He squealed as her figure fell through him, obviously her balancing act of sitting on the side of the bed wasn't working. He opened his eyes, unable to see the familiar light of day. He blinked, looking over at her. Her hair was everywhere, her clothes were loosely hanging off her and there was a bottle of all-too familiar alcohol resting in her hand. Sitting up in the bed, he came to the conclusion that she was obviously drunk.

"Pssst! Niiccck!"

Her attempt to be quiet didn't work, she was as loud as a foghorn. Silly girl, what on earth was she doing? He blinked again, watching her attempt to prod his leg, to no avail. He prodded her nose, watching her fall back on the ground, giggling insanely.

"Rita! What on earth are you doing?"

"I couldn't sleep!"

"So you decided to get drunk? Good thinking m'dear."

"I'm just a good idea machine!"

She pulled herself up, falling back down on the bed and spilling even more of her alcohol on his blankets. He doubted that would ever come out, no matter how much the house elves scrubbed. He floated up beside her, scowling and trying not to seem upset that his marvellous dream had been rudely interrupted.

"Come on, back to bed with you."

He beckoned, floating forward and watching her stumble across to the stairs, making sure she didn't fall down. She might hurt herself. They managed to get down safely, before Rita ran into a small corridor. He had to race after her, calling out as she tripped on a tapestry, the entire thing enveloping her with a mighty crash. Dust filled the air as he saw her wriggle and squirm, his eyes falling upon a picture that had been hidden under the tapestry. An all too familiar face, and from the looks of it the portrait was in colour. He heard her giggle as blonde curls popped out of the ruined tapestry, following his gaze to the picture.

"Oh my god, hes so hot!"

Dear god, help us all, Nick thought to himself as she squeezed out of the tapestry and jumped up, almost falling over in her attempt to see the portrait. It was like a time capsule, plunging Nick back to his teenage years. Unfortunately, Rita had seen it too.

"Nick, who is this man! I MUST hunt him down and chain him to my bed forever more!"

"Rita, its m-"

"Oh I don't care about his name. Marry me portrait! I love you!"

Silver blush travelled across his face as he attempted to stop her from praising the portrait. He thanked god it wasn't moving, or that would have led to some very, very awkward conversation. He wanted to see the colours, the rich red that his tunic was, the yellow of his belt. He remembered the week that was painted as if it was yesterday, it was all coming back to him. They'd taken him out of Mass especially for it.

"Nick! I must have this portrait! This man is a SEX GOD. I tell you now, this person is a GOD."

He looked closer, noting the grey freckles and the little dark grey splogde on his tunic from lunch. They had eaten soup, if he remembered. All these things he thought he had forgotten rushed back to his mind, it was astounding. Although the fact that Rita was now drunkenly attempting to take the picture off the wall was extremely unsettling.

"Rita! What are you doing?"

"Taking the sex god back to my dormitory! Nick, this man is too hot for words. Simply stunning. I want to marry him and have his babies."

"Rita! Tha-"

"No, seriously Nick. We HAVE to hunt him down. I bet hes good in bed too."

"Thats m-"

"Oh, yes, straight from heaven this one. Nick, help me get the picture off the wall!"

"But i-"

"No buts! My god, I could sit here forever and look at him. Nick, don't you agree?"

"Ri-"

"Will he have a daquiri with me? Nick! Make the dreamy portrait have a daquiri!"

"I'm so-"

"HOW I LOVE THEE, LET ME COUNT THE WAYS..."

"Ssh, you'l-"

"I need to make a SHRINE! To St...whoever the fuck this is! Patron saint of hot sex, daquiris and dreamy boys!"

"But Rit-"

"I LOVE YOU PICTURE! I'll be your sex slave anyday!"

Was she...was she chatting up his teenage self? He put his hand through her head, making her turn around and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"RITA THAT PORTRAIT IS OF ME!"

"Oh, is it? You were HOT. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well I didn't know I was...hot, as you put it."

"Marry me Nick! Marry me Nicks picture!"

"Alright alright, but once you get to bed and sleep."

"Of course, fiance of mine! I LOOOOVE YOU!"

"Shhhh."

Once he had gotten her into bed and waited until she was fast asleep, he returned to the portrait. Was he really...hot? He wished he could see the colours, he would have given almost anything to have seen the brilliant oil colours, the ones that came up so vividly in his mind but failed to show in reality. He would ask Rita, she would tell him. She could describe anything, he muttered to himself. She was a description machine, perfect witness. He reached out, letting his fingers brush across the picture. He was hot? Did he lose his good looks? No, most certainly not. He was as gorgeous now as he was then. Concentrating as hard as he could, he carefully took down the portrait and floated it over to Ritas dormitory. Laying down next to her, he couldn't wait till morning struck and she could tell him all about the portrait, and hopefully not vomit all over it. Closing his eyes and allowing himself to fall into a pretend slumber, the vivid colours all came back to him as he escaped his colourless world.


End file.
